


Midwestern Manners

by meaninglessblah



Series: Gift Fics [12]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Caretaking, Clubbing, Comfort/Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Groping, M/M, Nesting, Omega Roy Harper, Scenting, Strangers to Lovers, Touch-Starved, alpha jon kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26942149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Jon stumbles across a drugged omega in an alley, and is too well-mannered to leave well enough alone.
Relationships: Roy Harper/Jonathan Samuel Kent
Series: Gift Fics [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960108
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Midwestern Manners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alphaofallcats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphaofallcats/gifts).



> A very happy birthday to you, lovely!! Hope you enjoy this fic and your special day <3

Gotham was… overwhelming. 

Everything about the city seemed designed to assault the senses. A constant, heaving oppression on sensibility and decency, determined to snuff out the last dregs of kindness beneath it’s gluttonous weight. 

He’d only been here three days; Jon was fairly certain he’d seen enough of Gotham for the meanwhile. 

It was a city of superficiality, above all else. Painted in neon tones designed to distract and dissuade - but painted over stain and void nonetheless. There was an impermeability to the smog of Gotham, a lack of substance beneath the bright lights and raucous noise. 

And the  _ smell.  _

Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever smelt that many bodies packed tight to one another, grinding in the dimness to the pulse of a song he thought he’d heard once on the radio, when he’d flipped to the wrong channel by mistake. The sort that drowned his own heartbeat, make Jon nauseatingly aware of the dryness of his tongue and the sweat and skin pressed against him. 

He’d extricated himself from the club for a breath of fresh air. Deprived even of that in the festering glumness of Gotham’s downtown streets. 

It didn’t smell like Kansas. Kansas smelt free and clear, and whatever fleeting scent you gleaned from the occasional alpha or omega was chalked up to bad manners and thought nothing more of. 

Here, in Gotham, they wore their scent like a threat. Like a statement to the brave and daring. There was nothing accidental about how every omega that had stumbled into him had smeared their scent across Jon’s clothes like some sort of vulgar claim. 

He’d slipped from the nightclub into the empty air as much for the solitude as he had for the chance to scrape some of the grime from himself. Assure himself that the raucous mix of scents were more of a declaration than a courting. It had nothing to do with him, he assured himself and banished the memory of lingering eyes on his form, it was just omegas and alphas performing for a blind crowd. 

He didn’t like the disingenuity. Call him old-fashioned, but Jon liked to get a sum of a person’s character from their actions before he got even a whiff of their scent. Gotham’s way of cramming itself down people’s throats was certainly reflected in its citizens’ demeanours. 

Such a blistering chorus of people that Jon was muddled. Couldn’t find a single sliver of honesty amongst them, as far as character went. 

So he found himself leaning back against the plastered-over brick of the nightclub, heaving air and scratching at the cling of others on his flesh. Blinked up at the cloudy darkness of Gotham’s sky; a blur of what Jon knew to be stars, but couldn’t confidently say were visiting that night. 

It struck him again, how unlike Kansas it all was. He missed the open skies, bright and blue and spackled with the ghosts of stars even when the blazing sun was overhead. 

Gotham was a lovely reprieve, he supposed, for the adventurous, thrill-seeking sort. Jon just didn’t consider himself the sort. 

He was here for a conference on Journalism in the 21st Century. Jon had been hoping to leave a lasting impression on the delegates from the Daily Planet at his father’s suggestion; he was new to Metropolis, still finding his feet in the fast-paced concrete jungle, but even he knew there were only so many newborn calves and prosperous wheat harvests a Kansas journalist could report on before their career choked in the heat of the Midwest. 

The conference was a chance to get his name out there. Shake the right hands and impress the right people. 

It had been daunting, for more reasons than just finding himself in a strange, foreign city. Jon still wasn’t used to the… forwardness of city alphas. Nor the simpering, coy nudges of career omegas, pressing unassuming hands to his crisp shirts, tugging at his plain ties. He’d elected not to wear a tie on the second day, after all he’d been tugged around by chattering omegas on his first. One of his colleagues had mentioned it with a laugh, and Jon had smiled bashfully and said he was trying out the ‘city look’. 

By the time their small group had elected to hit the town and see the local attractions - which, Jon came to realise, meant traipsing through greasy nightclubs with alcohol-sticky floors and far too many bodies to not be considered a fire hazard - he’d graduated to rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and opening the first few buttons. If only to stave off the throbbing heat that seemed to permeate the club, the air mixed with seeking omegas and chasing alphas. 

Experiencing Gotham firsthand, and all its visceral sleaze, Jon was starting to understand why people smoked cigarettes in the city. He supposed nicotine was consistent at least, a stable palate in the midst of the tide of distracting scents. He’d never partaken himself, but eyeing the figures slouched against the walls outside the nightclub, Jon was half-considering it. If only to taste something other than omega and alpha crisscrossing on his tastebuds. 

It was all so, overwhelming. 

He’d be glad to be back in his shoebox of an apartment in Metropolis, with his small one-seater table and his microwave oven. At least there, the scents were consistent, nothing but his own familiar musk to cloak him. 

The acrid stench is beginning to irritate his nose, so Jon pries himself off the wall, swiping a hand over the back of his neck to clear some of the grime. It’s a soothing motion, reminiscent of sun-beaten days beneath a summer sky, and it calms him. 

There’s an alley beside the nightclub, the scarce remains of what Jon assumes was once a thriving small business. From the black that streaks up the brick on either side, and the distinct disregard all the passersby give the space, he can only assume it’s been gone a while. Maybe the remnants of a racketeering threat gone awry. He wouldn’t put it past a place like Gotham to strangle the livelihood out of a district. 

Jon feels his lips twist in chagrin. He’s getting ahead of himself again; he needs to learn to put his investigative mind to rest, to stop looking for stories where there are none. If his editor was half-suspicious of how many hunches have led to Jon’s biggest breaking stories, he’d be packed up and on his way back to Kansas before he could say ‘unfounded accusation’. 

Veins thick with self-admonishment, Jon digs his hands into his jean pockets and turns into the alley, seeking the solitude of unassuming brick facades to clear his head. In the cloying dark, he trips over the long legs of a body he sees far too late. 

It’s a cascade of limbs and bleated, half-formed apologies. Jon finds himself tangled in the person beneath him, his Nana’s chastising words about unbecoming alphas in dark alleys ringing in his ears. 

“I’m very sorry,” Jon babbles, bracing a palm against the brick and clawing his way back to upright with apologetic gusto. “I’m very sorry, are you alright? That was my fault, I didn’t mean to-” 

The man beneath him unfolds with a disgruntled, aimless groan, slumping back up against the brickwall beneath Jon’s arms. In the light of the cracked streetlamp, Jon can just make out a wash of pale, freckled skin and a flame of red hair. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, rediscovering his balance as the man blinks owlishly up at him. There’s a stiltedness to his movements, the lack of coordination even more obvious than Jon’s own. He looks like he’s just been woken up, his pupils dilated and yawning wide like a clear night’s sky. 

Jon pauses, a coldness starting in his gut as the man swallows and frowns at him. Fingers brush his thigh, trailing hot even through his jeans, and Jon shifts. Freezes when glass crunches under the toe of his shoe. 

“M’sorry,” the man slurs, pink lips bitten and raw. His freckles dance over his cheeks, and Jon can just make out the ring of green around his pupils, bright and verdant like newgrown wheat. 

Those fingers brush Jon’s hip again, twining into his empty belt loops as his mouth opens and closes on nothing. 

“S’sorry,” the man repeats, head lolling as he tries to right himself against the brick. He veers towards Jon, grip suring on his jeans to hold himself upright, and Jon swallows thick through his throat. “I’ll b’better soon, I promise.” 

“Sorry,” Jon gasps, unsure what else he’s supposed to say. He stumbles, tries to right himself and can’t seem to get free when his calves are tangled with the man’s. He’s sat back on the pavement, dragging himself towards wakefulness as Jon kneels over him. 

He shifts his weight back, getting one leg under him - the one with the man’s fingers attached - and pushes half-upright, his heart thundering a warning in his chest. 

The man’s scent hits him then, Jon’s face stilling where it’s crooked towards that bare throat. His sweatshirt’s loose around his collarbones, the burgundy material frayed and the aglets chewed, but the milky expanse of his throat is bare beneath the slackness of Jon’s jaw, his teeth inches from that tantalising neck. 

Jon inhales before he can think better, the stench of Gotham chased back by sweet and turned-tart. It reminds him, absurdly, of his Ma’s raspberry pies, the warm butter-base melting beneath the sharper, almost sour notes. It’s achingly, blessedly  _ omega, _ and the surety of the scent centres him. 

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been in his reverie, captivated by the man’s contradictory scent, until his other palm - broad and warm, swamping Jon’s own large thigh - smothers over the front of his jeans. 

Jon reels, another apology stuttering onto his lips as the man’s grip shifts, seeking, and firms. Panic laces up Jon’s chest as he pulls back, off-kilter. 

“I can pay, I can pay,” the man is mumbling, head bowing towards Jon’s crotch, and he has the horrible, gut-clenching realisation of what the man intends. 

“No, that’s fine,” he gasps, scrambling to right himself. A hand reaches blindly to fend the man off, even as his nose scrapes up the length of Jon’s zipper. 

Jon makes a wounded, startled noise, and his grip sures on the man’s broad shoulder, shoving him back. 

He wants to say, ‘That’s not necessary’ or ‘I think you’ve gotten me confused with someone else’, but he’s suddenly waylaid by the breadth of muscle beneath his biting fingertips. The man’s shoulders are firm and wide, furrowing down into sizeable arms that taper into delicate wrists. His fingers are long, his nails blunt where they curl into Jon’s pocket, and he feels his throat run dry. 

“My name is Jon,” he bleats, defaulting to Good Midwestern Manners in the face of this terribly misunderstood encounter. 

The man in the alley pauses, blinks once, before his lips part in a crooked but stretching smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Jon,” the man drawls, snickering at the end. His nose scrunches with the chuckle, freckles bleeding into one another in the wrinkles. 

Jon shakes himself, focuses on the task at hand. “Do you need help?” 

The man barks a laugh and shakes free some of his stringy orange locks. He’s perking up, even marginally, but his motions are still sluggish, effort evident in every drag of his knuckles across the front of Jon’s jeans. “You’ve got good manners,” he says, instead of answering Jon. “Don’t see that much around here.” 

He looks ragged, beneath Jon’s discerning gaze. Now that his adrenaline isn’t spiking and the man seems to have stopped trying to plant his face in Jon’s crotch, he can actually get a look at the omega. 

His skin is tinged with sweat, his lips cracked around his smile. Jon can see his nails are bitten down, a scrape evident on his palm from where it’s lost grip on the brick wall. His jeans don’t seem to fit his hips well, slipping to expose one ridge of a hipbone, a small peak of pale stomach where the man’s slumped. He doesn’t seem to notice the chill in the air. 

“Roy,” the man breathes. 

“Pardon me?” Jon says, and that earns him another laugh. 

The grip on his jeans tightens. “I’m good for that hit, you know,” the man, Roy, assures him, and for a moment Jon thinks he’s going to lean forwards again. “I can make it worth your while, and I’ll have the cash next time-” 

Jon blushes. “That’s not- I’m not-” 

“I needed it,” Roy continues earnestly. “Thanks, I- I needed the hit, man. I can’t thank you enough. Let me-” 

“No!” Jon yelps, and seizes the man’s wrists, pries them free of his belt loops. 

Roy stills beneath him, blinking slowly beneath Jon’s frazzled gaze. He sighs into the grip Jon has on his wrists, slipping beneath the alpha’s authority, and guilt wracks through Jon like lightning across the dry plains. 

“That wasn’t-” he starts, and releases his grips. Roy’s hands drop back to his own thighs, limp and empty. 

Jon casts around the alley, unsure who exactly he’s looking for. The man’s dealer? An officer? 

He turns back when nothing but scuffing footsteps and uninterested passersby greet him, brow pinched. The omega clearly doesn’t have anyone to care for him, his appearance drab and frayed from more than just a few shoddy clothes. 

Jon doesn’t even know what the guy’s  _ taken, _ doesn’t know how much or what it’s going to do. Just that clearly, this isn’t his first hit, and probably not likely to be his last. 

He pushes to his feet, taking a clarifying step back from where Roy sits against the brick. He watches the man’s palms press to his pockets, seeking and then unearthing a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Watches him light one with shaking, fissured fingers and scrape it across his lower lip. 

“Can I, do you have somewhere to go?” Jon asks tentatively. He wants to go, wants to call it a night and head back to his airbnb. Has already constructed a plausible, mostly truthful explanation to give his colleagues tomorrow. 

Can’t get it past his conscience to leave the man in the alley, a vulnerable omega who’s already shown a propensity for beckoning forth trouble. 

Roy just bites out a bitter laugh and nearly drops his cigarette. Frowns at the burning ember and takes a long drag that bellows back out of his nose in a pale grey cloud. 

Jon swallows, glancing back at the street, and then down again at Roy. Kicks himself over the stupidity of his offer, but asks anyway, “I have a place, if you need somewhere to sleep?” 

Roy looks at him over the tip of his cigarette, and Jon’s just thinking how ridiculous it would be for an omega to trust an unknown alpha who’s just found him high in an alley- when Roy replies. 

“Sure.” 

Jon blinks. “Sure?” 

Roy shrugs. “Sure. If you’ve got a place, I won’t say no.” 

Jon stares at him a long while, trying to discern the man’s intentions. He’d probably make a good mark for the more opportunistic sort, an obvious out of towner with a brimming wallet and an unfamiliarity with the local law enforcement. 

Then something else occurs to Jon. 

“I’m not inviting you back for- for-” He can’t get the words out, the heat rising on his cheeks and choking the words from his lips. 

Roy snorts, the sound crisp and genuine in its mirth, and snuffs the half-worn cigarette on the pavement. “I’ll take any sort of bed I can get,” he answers, and Jon notes that it’s not a contradiction. 

Not a refusal, either. 

Jon offers the man a palm, startled by the strength behind that grip when he takes it. Roy sways once he’s righted, so Jon keeps a grip on his fingers for a short while longer, just until he’s sure the omega is stable. He can feel the man’s eyes on him, discerning. It makes Jon itch with the urge to offer him his seat, or his jacket, or whatever else he has on him. 

Now that he can see the man beneath the faded streetlamps, Jon can make out the bruised knuckles and the haphazard scars, the wear and tear of a no-doubt eventful life. It only makes the urge flare brighter. 

Jon clears his throat, and rubs the back of his neck again. “Did you need to call anyone to let them know where you’re going?” 

Roy gives him a slow, amused smile. “I don’t even know where I’m going yet, handsome,” he drawls, and Jon flushes indignantly. “But no, I don’t have anyone to call. Ready to go when you are.” 

“Just wanted to make sure,” Jon mumbles, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He boots a rideshare app and punches in his details, keeping his gaze down. Roy hovers while he does, those raw knuckles fidgeting in his pockets and then around the drawstrings of his hood. 

“You’re not from around here, huh?” Roy asks when Jon lowers his phone. He shakes his head, and Roy snickers. “You stick out like a sore thumb.” 

“Is it the accent?” Jon returns with the barest twist of his lips. Their ride will be here any minute, and then Jon will be in an enclosed space with that scent. He scuffs the toe of his shoe, fretting on the worn pavement and breathing in the smog of Gotham to clear his head. 

Roy smirks and tosses those orange locks, lifting a hand to settle them when he’s done. “You’re too kind for a place like this, handsome.” 

Jon stares, and isn’t sure what to say to an accusation like that. It strikes him, momentarily, that this might be the omega’s attempts at flirting. It’s oddly… traditional, compared to the forwardness of all the other omegas he’s brushed against tonight. 

Jon ducks his head to curb what threatens to be a smile. It’s going to take him a while to get over how overwhelming Gotham and her citizens can be. 

* * *

  
  


The ride back to the tiny one-bedroom apartment Jon is renting from a lovely couple on airbnb for the weekend conference is energetic and amusing. Roy takes the lead in their conversation, talking animatedly about carburetors and fuel injections the short distance back. 

The air in the car is stale, but the man’s ramblings fill the small space with life, the early morning nightlife winding down beyond the windows. Jon watches the twitch and roll of his hands as he talks, smiling gently at the enthusiastic gestures. 

Roy’s beginning to crash by the time they stagger upstairs and Jon manages to fumble the keys into the lock. The omega is loud, and Jon spares a wince for his temporary neighbours when he ushers the man inside, cutting off some spiel about perfect combustion ratios. 

The handiest Jon’s ever gotten with a wrench was when he’d helped his Pa fix a tractor back in his teens, smearing grease and oil over his one good pair of jeans as they’d worked long into the afternoon. Most of Roy’s chatter is lost on him, but the man seems to enjoy Jon’s attentiveness, his eyes lighting every time Jon nods along. 

He pauses when Jon closes the door and deadbolts it - the couple had been very adamant about that, a good country boy like him ought to stay safe in this sort of neighbourhood. Turning back to trail Roy with another admiring look, Jon has the absurd thought that maybe this was what they were warning him against when they insisted he ‘steer clear of the local riff raff’. 

“Nice place,” Roy comments, and stifles a yawn. 

“Thank you, I’m just renting it for the weekend,” Jon informs him, and Roy nods contemplatively, surveying the crisp, tasteful decor. It’s a tad more minimalist than Jon likes, personally, but it’s nice enough for the weekend. “The bedroom and ensuite are through here if you’d like a shower?” 

Roy scrubs at his shoulder, suddenly looking lost in the vastness of the sparse living room. “That’d be great, thanks,” he says, and then rolls his tongue around his mouth, wincing. “Should’ve brought a toothbrush.” 

Jon perks. “Oh, I have a spare you can use. It’s still in its packaging, so I can promise it’s fresh.” 

Roy blinks at him, and Jon blushes. 

“My Nan always used to insist I take an extra brush with me on trips. Now it’s a habit.” 

Roy nods, slowly, like he’s digesting that, and starts after Jon towards the bedroom. 

Jon busies himself with retrieving a clean towel and then digging through his baggage while Roy’s gaze sweeps the immaculate tile like he’s considering bolting. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asks when he hands the toothbrush over. 

Roy nods hesitantly, and shimmies out of his worn sweatshirt to drop it on the tile. “It’s bright in here.” 

Jon glances up at the fluorescents, and then down at his pale lashes where they sweep over his freckled cheekbones. “I suppose so. You’ll probably feel better after a shower. I’ll be in the lounge; call out if you need anything.” 

“Sure thing,” Roy mumbles, and Jon tugs the door closed on the sight of the omega staring himself down in the mirror. 

He closes the bedroom door behind him too, just for good measure, and slumps back into the cushions of the loveseat sofa in the lounge room, reaching for the remote. Doesn’t actually flick the television on until the sound of the shower spray starts up. Then Jon settles into a rerun of Wheel of Fortune, one elbow propped up on the arm. 

The episode has rolled into some gritty crime drama by the time the shower shuts off, but Jon gives Roy a few courtesy ad breaks before he pulls to his feet to approach the quiet bedroom. 

He’s tired, if he’s honest with himself. He’s spent most of the day on his feet manning a conference stand, or taking notes through half-enlightened presentations. And now an evening out with his colleagues; Jon feels drained, an eager to sleep. 

He’s had enough time to contemplate the sleeping arrangements by now, and has come to the conclusion that whilst Roy will probably offer to take the couch, Jon couldn’t call himself a gentleman unless he let the omega take the sole bed in the apartment. He can survive one night on the sofa anyway; he’s only got one more night in Gotham, and then he’ll be home to his own familiar bed. That, and Jon can’t say with any certainty that he believes Roy has spent much time recently sleeping in an actual bed. 

The omega has been quiet an awful long time. The steam from the shower must have long dissipated by now, and he has yet to emerge. 

Jon lifts a knuckle to rap gently on the wood, pausing to make out the ceaseless shuffling within. “Roy? Is everything alright?” When the movements stop, but no response is forthcoming, Jon clears his throat gently and offers, “I can take the couch if that suits you. Just let me grab some sleeping clothes?” 

It takes a moment before he can make out the soft pad of footsteps across the carpet, and then Roy appears. His hair is still dripping, though he seems to have made some attempt to scrub the moisture from the bright locks. He’s retrieved his jeans, a few of the top buttons forgotten in his haste. The sweatshirt has apparently not yet been salvaged from the bathroom tile, because Jon’s greeted with a full view of the man’s broad, freckled chest and the sweep of his abdominals when he pulls the door open. 

The heat to his cheeks really shouldn’t come as a surprise by now, but Jon’s gaze lingers on the trail of fiery orange descending into the waistband of the man’s black boxer briefs before ricocheting up to safer territory. 

Jon clears his throat and repeats, “Is everything okay?” 

Roy looks at little flustered, his brow knotted and shoulders just beginning to hunch. He looks uncomfortable, his attention pulled elsewhere, as his eyes flicker over Jon, hesitate on his lips, and then dive back to his feet. “Yeah, I’m- Everything’s fine, I just needed to- You can come in.” 

He lets go of the door handle, and Jon lifts a hand to push the wood aside when the man turns back for the bed he’s obviously just vacated. 

But it’s there on the threshold that Jon hesitates, surprise and confusion lacing tight through his sternum. 

Roy’s returns to his perch at the foot of the bed, one leg curled under him on the covers as he frets idly. He’s erratic again, gaze darting about the room and nails scratching absently at his wrists. He looks embarrassed, and Jon can’t find the sensibility to soothe him before the omega says sheepishly, “I wasn’t sure which clothes you wanted to wear, so I laid them all out, but then I found more clothes and so I thought you might want them all kept together so-” 

Jon stares, dumbfounded. In some recess of his mind, his Nan chastises him for staring so long, says if the wind changes he’ll be frozen with that gawking look on his face, but Jon can’t tear his eyes away from the sight. 

His suitcase has been upended and strewn across the bedsheets. Or at least, that’s what Jon assumes at first glance. But the longer Roy sits and rambles, fingers reaching out tentatively to adjust a sleeve or a collar here or there, the more it begins to take discernible shape. 

Roy clearly began with his sleep clothes, which are arranged at the head of the bed. But the further down Jon’s eyes travel, the more erratic and haphazard the composition gets; pairs of sock and scrunched jeans padding the foundations of the clothing art piece, forming a dam around the recess in the centre of the bed. 

“You made a nest,” Jon interrupts, and Roy ducks. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, and pets hesitantly at one of Jon’s crumpled shirts, smoothing it out as much as it can be when it’s twisted in with a pair of trousers. 

Jon shakes himself. “Are you… are you okay?” 

Roy meets his gaze then, something self-admonishing and apologetic in their depths, like he’s regretting imposing his presence on Jon. The sight makes Jon’s sympathy reflex rear it’s familiar head. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do this much,” Roy babbles, and shoots to his feet. His nails scrape across his scalp, threading into his hair as he paces aimlessly. “I just wanted to get your clothes out for you and I- Look, I have weed back at my place, I usually smoke some just to come down a bit after a hit, but I don’t have any on me, and the next thing I know, I’d built  _ this _ -” 

“It’s fine, “ Jon whispers, and clears his throat to reclaim his voice. “Roy, it’s fine, I- Thank you, I suppose? For the nest. It looks… it looks cosy.” 

Roy freezes, every muscle locking as his head snaps up to assess Jon. Analyse the depth of his sincerity, and whatever he sees must convince him, because the tension washes out of his shoulders entirely. Jon thinks he even sees a smile flicker across those lips before they turn down into a frown. 

“I can tidy it up,” he insists. “I’ll wash everything, and then I can fold it. I’ll get rid of this mess, I’m sorry.” 

Jon’s across the room before he even remembers to walk, one set of long fingers looping over Roy’s outstretched wrist as he bends over the bed. Roy yanks out of his grip immediately, startled, and Jon takes a similar step back at the harsh recoil. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab at you.” 

Roy nods, swallowing and fretting. He looks erratic still, a nervousness buzzing just under his skin. It feels like electricity where Jon’s fingertips touched him. 

“I just meant to say,” Jon says, “it would be a waste of a perfectly good nest if we didn’t use it for just one night. I can do laundry in the morning; I’m beat. If you want to sleep here, we can, I won’t say no.” 

Those long lashes blink once, twice, and then fall back to the haphazard nest. Roy seems to sway where he stands. 

“I’m-” He shakes himself, shoulders curling forward. “Sorry, I’m not usually this- The come down messes with my hormones sometimes, I don’t mean to be so-” 

“It’s okay,” Jon says softly, and takes a seat where Roy had been at the end of the bed. He casts around for his suitcase as he toes off his shoes. “I’m going to brush my teeth, and then I’ll get in the nest. If you want the company, I can join you, or I can take the couch. Which would you prefer?” 

The lump of Roy’s throat bobs a few times before he croaks, with effort, “The company would be nice.” 

Jon doesn’t doubt it. If Roy’s coming down from whatever high he’d been riding, his hormones must be running amuck with his senses. Jon knows how clingy he can get when he approaches his ruts; he wouldn’t be surprised if omegas are just as touch-starved when they’re riding the edges of their heats. 

He’s not sure that Roy  _ is _ going into heat. When Jon surreptitiously tests his scent on the air, there’s none of that thickness to it, just that sweet tart quality to the notes. Still, if Roy doesn’t want him here, Jon will leave in a heartbeat. He’s not one to compromise an addled omega. 

“I’m going to brush my teeth,” Jon repeats, spotting his suitcase half tucked beneath the other side of the bed. It’ll give the man a chance to get comfortable, to decide if he really does want Jon’s company, or if he’d prefer the distance tonight. “You let me know what you decide.” 

He leaves the bathroom door open so Roy can see what he’s doing, and tries to focus on his own blue eyes in the mirror. And not the reflection of the omega behind him, pacing around the bed before he evidently decides jeans are not going to be comfortable to sleep in, and kicks them off at the nightstand. 

Jon definitely takes an above-normal interest in the minty tang of his toothpaste then as he spits. Focuses on the chill of the vanity beneath his palms to ignore the sight of the man’s hips when he curls up in the middle of the nest. 

When he gets back to the bed, Roy is all but sprawled across half the space, legs askew and toes curling as he breathes slow and steady. The omega is still awake, those half-lidded green eyes tracking Jon as he heads across the room and unbuttons his shirt. 

He folds it and leaves it on the nightstand, so he’ll have something unrumpled to wear tomorrow. Jon elects to leave his jeans on - notwithstanding the discomfort he’s sure to regret tomorrow - when Roy’s gaze drips down to the cradle of his hips, the places where his waistband dips beneath his hooked thumbs. 

Jon pauses beside the bed, watching Roy swallow slowly and those warm green eyes rise up the whole of him. Feels his own throat dry at the quick swipe of Roy’s tongue over his chapped bottom lip. “You coming to bed?” he asks, just the barest bit hoarse. “It’s getting cold down here.” 

The alpha sets a knee on the bed and gives him his best Kansas grin. “Of course. Where are my manners?” 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
